


March 24 - Ring-A-Ring-A-Challenge

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Other - Freeform, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2006-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today’s entry in the Tale of Years is:</p><p>March 24</p><p>Frodo and Samwise make their last journey to the feet of Mount Doom. </p><p>The Host camps in the Desolation of the Morannon.</p><p>So what happens to the characters NOT mentioned in this entry by name? Or characters, such as wives, children or bad guys, that must have existed, but were never mentioned at all?</p><p>Here's your chance: tell us about the characters that Tolkien did not mention for this day in Middle-earth, March 3019!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 24th March

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Elladan scoffed at those who would turn back from the path Aragorn had put them on. He was right, there was no place here for the faint-hearted. If he had been in charge he would have made sure they carried on, as the warriors they should be.

But it was not his place. Aragorn had made his decision, as was his right. The two of them often had different views and Aragorn had learnt from his mistakes in the past, so Elladan did not say anything. He knew Aragorn's plan would come right in the end, for they often did.


	2. Before the Morannon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todays entry in the Tale of Years is:

Éomer circled the campsites, talking with his men, his cheerful, determined manner infusing them with courage. He manifested no outward sign of his awareness of the dire circumstance, except that he could not settle in one place. The smoky grime-filled air burned his eyes, causing a heavy congested feeling in his chest, and left a bitter metallic taste at the back of his throat. Wolves could be heard howling in the distance, as could the rustlings outside the periphery of the camp of unseen evil things. Among the quiet campsites of the host, the only ones that still gave off the sounds of muffled conversations and occasional soft laughter were those of his own Rohirrim warriors and of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth.

Prince Imrahil observed Éomer, noting how he greeted every rider as a friend and brother, and saw how the sight of their King moving among them comforted all. His easy comradeship, rather than reducing his kingly stature in any way, increased his nobility in the eyes of his troops. "This man is not only a fierce warrior," Imrahil thought, "but a magnetic leader and has the potential to be a wise King. Would that our world survives tomorrow to see that promise accomplished." 

Éomer ambled toward a fire where the sons of Imrahil were resting. Greeting Prince Imrahil in passing, he squatted near Prince Elphir, the Dol Amroth heir, and his brothers. Éomer shook his head and gestured that he did not wish to interrupt, when the young men made moves to rise to welcome him.

Éomer glanced at Amrothos, Imrahil's youngest son. He had an oddly familiar look about him, almost Elvish in grace and demeanor. Perhaps the legends of the ancestry of the line of the princes of Dol Amroth had some truth in them. Éomer was struck that Amrothos appeared too slender, boyish and fair for his role in tomorrow's confrontation. But he had seen him on the Pelennor Fields and knew he was not only older than he looked, but a fully trained and blooded Swan Knight. Amrothos smiled charmingly, unselfconsciously at Éomer and continued with the story he had been telling.

"Then, after we finished dancing, I guided her out of the doorway and onto the terrace. But when I tried to kiss her, she pushed me away from her with both hands, squealing like a stuck pig."

"And, when, little brother, in your limited and citified experiences, have you heard such a pig squeal?" Elphir laughed.

"You should follow father's advice. Stay away from young noblewomen, unless you have serious intentions," Erchirion added intolerantly, clearly making a point he had made countless times before. "She will either react as your young lady did, or worse yet, if she have her wits about her, you may find her father approaching ours the following day demanding you make an honest woman of his not-so-fair daughter."

"I only approach the ones who are fair of form and face, brother. I have not your taste for discreet women, as you name them, who could perhaps be more accurately described as old enough to be my mother, or courtesans," Amrothos answered.

"Such refinement, Amrothos. Courtesan is an elegant name indeed for the majority of our dear brother's regular female companions," chuckled Elphir.

"I object to your 'old enough to be my mother' portrayal. Since when did women in Dol Amroth start bearing children at eight or ten years of age?" Erchirion grumbled.

"What about you, Elphir? You pursued and won the heart of an aristocratic woman without resorting to bored old wives or, if the word courtesan is too refined for your taste, paying whores for comfort?" demanded Amrothos.

"I must insist that the two of you keep my esteemed wife out of your barracks room' twaddle," Elphir said archly, but while giving Erchirion a droll wink. "However, in her defense, I must admit that she certainly did not squeal like a farm animal when I first touched her. I recall the sound she made was more of a low charming moan of pure rapture." At that all three of the younger Dol Amroth princes laughed at their own nonsense. Éomer quietly rose, gave them a small nod, and, walking off a short piece, lowered himself to sit cross-legged next to Prince Imrahil.

"My sons are actually less shallow, young or capricious than they sound at times like this. But I am sure you have heard this talk often enough and rougher," Imrahil said. "It is the universal method soldiers use to stave off fear and thoughts of death the night before a battle."

"I will admit that such talk sounds less rough in Elvish words than it does in Rohirric," Éomer answered lightly.

Imrahil laughed, "I was not thinking of the tongue, or even skill in its use, but of the fact that my sons' joking is tempered by the fact that their father is listening. I was much the same at their age, but have made it a point not to engage in such banter with them. A man has to hold onto some dignity at my age."

"I cannot pretend to age or dignity, but I have to admit that unexpected responsibility and loss seems to have had a recent chilling effect on my humor," Éomer answered, sounding tired. "When I walked among my men just now, their talk was much like that of your sons, but, as you correctly noted, rougher—horses are always a welcome distraction for the Rohirrim—not in the same context, mind you," he chuckled dryly. "They boast of the prowess of their horses and exchange bawdy jokes about women. But I heard no words of loved ones left behind or mortality. Those subjects are too close to the dread they seek to push back."

"In such circumstances, my escape would be to mull over and argue strategy," Imrahil said. "But unfortunately that as well is unavailable as a topic tonight."

"True," Éomer replied. "You put it well in our last debate in Minas Tirith. We are like children threatening a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow."

"Yes. As Mithrandir pointed out we cannot win victory by arms, but by arms we can give the Ring-bearer his only chance, frail though that may be," Imrahil said.

After several minutes of silence, Imrahil spoke again, "It is a necessary gamble, but the stakes are too high. Success tomorrow would give life to our longest held dreams but the result of defeat would be unthinkable. I like to drink, but have never been much of a gambler," Imrahil sighed.

The scent of pipe-weed grew closer, discernable to the two men even on this heavy air. They stood and greeted Aragorn wordlessly, clasping his hand and slapping him on the shoulder in turn. Aragorn settled himself down with them, drew calmly on his pipe, and replied quietly, "I am sorry, Imrahil, my friend. I can offer nothing that will improve our odds on the morrow, but I can provide a drink--compliments of Elrohir and Elladan. I think it will satisfy even your discerning taste." 

"I am most grateful, my lord," Imrahil answered, and, raising his voice slightly, asked. "Amrothos, please, can you find three cups for us?"

Éomer appreciatively took the cup that was offered. He stifled the urge to ask how the sons of Elrond had agreed to part with this rare vintage, without at least insisting upon sharing it, when he realized that they doubtless had not the stomach for it on this night. Then, so softly did the sound drift in the windless air that at first he thought he had imagined it, he heard two voices singing of the creation of the stars. Looking in the direction of the music, he saw, illuminated in faint firelight, the tall form, strong and relentless, of the elf Legolas. With the reflection on his light hair and pale visage, he appeared as luminescent as one of those High Elves of ancient legends, staring off into the darkness seeking the source of the melody as well.

"My brothers," Aragorn said, his expression impassive, "usually so lustful for life and eager in war, revert to their pensive Elvish side tonight." 

"I am sorry there are no stars for them here," Éomer, having learned something of Elvenkind in these past weeks, said sympathetically.

The three men, calm and resolute, touched their cups and were content to wait out this night together in silent trust.

***

_Thanks to William Shakespeare for providing images and inspiration in_ Henry V _, which will always be for me the quintessential night-before-battle description and whose King Henry shares multiple traits with my Éomer._

_This is an excerpt from a chapter from my current WIP[http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=5909](http://astele.co.uk/henneth/Chapter/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=5909)_


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